The Sort of Thing You Forget
by Raphaela Crowley
Summary: Ten years after Armageddon didn't happen, Satan finds out Crowley and Aziraphale switched places for their respective trials and he wipes Crowley's memory of the last 6,000 years in retaliation. The very confused demon is now thoroughly convinced he's still an angel. Aziraphale has no idea what to do about this. No Slash.
1. Part 1 of 4

_The Sort of Thing You Forget_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part 1 of 4

It had been a nice day. Most of the days in the past decade had been nice.

Even on the most grey, rainiest afternoons, shafts of sunlight seemed to cast rainbow prisms from stray droplets, making the world a little brighter than it had been before it was almost destroyed.

Bad things happened, presumably, but they were hard to remember in much detail once they'd been attended to. Crowley actually struggled to bring a particular incident of tragedy worse than a spoiled picnic or traffic jam to the front of his mind. Of course, when you'd thwarted the coming of Armageddon and swapped places with your best friend on trial, minor inconveniences tended not to rankle as much. It was all prospective, really, when you came right down to it. Crowley was delighted to discover, in this decade of having been left – as he'd predicted – alone by the forces of Heaven and Hell both, just how much of an optimist he actually was.

Just to be safe, he and Aziraphale had kept an eye on the former son of Satan (currently son of Arthur Young, a man who was mostly all right in Crowley's estimation even though he legitimately believed, as was evident by several improperly filled out newspaper crossword puzzles, 'paparazzi' was a synonym for linoleum), but the boy – now a golden-haired Adonis of twenty-one – showed no signs of retained powers from his brief prepubescent stint as The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

Adam hadn't liked being followed, and was so bitterly severe (as only a hormonal teenager can be) in his insistence the angel and demon stop 'messing around' with his life, that he'd unwittingly brought tears of discouragement to Aziraphale's eyes, which in turn angered Crowley, who didn't like to see his friend upset, and there was almost – quite literally – an ungodly row...

Yet somehow it had all worked out for the best. They were on quite good terms now. Adam even sent them a post card or left a message on Crowley's ansaphone from time to time. Last they'd heard from him, he'd been the best man at Greasy Johnson's wedding. The bride had been none other than Adam's childhood chum Pepper – now Mrs. Pippin Johnson. She'd grown into rather a handsome woman, with her clear, warm-hued sienna skin and curly red-dyed hair – it was a shame about the raving feminism, lack of humour, and the overpowering tendency to constantly frown at everything. She'd apparently refused to wear a veil or be given away, or even have a traditional white cake at the reception. It was a wonder she'd agreed to be married at all. She _had _conceded – to appease her new mother-in-law and the overly invested professional photographer said mother-in-law had hired – to adorn herself in a puffy gown which Aziraphale, upon examining the wedding photographs, remarked to Crowley reminded him more of a prom dress.

And with Adam and his former gang and enemies alike seeming to be doing so well, Aziraphale and Crowley had little else to worry about.

Occasionally Crowley would spy Hastur lurking about, glaring daggers vaguely in his direction, but the demon would always vanish before he could confront him. Early last May, Aziraphale had seen Gabriel and Sandalphon across a busy street in Soho, but a lorry had come honking through and as soon as it passed the angels were gone as if they'd never been there. Otherwise, nobody had been in touch with either of them. And it was _glorious_. They could meet wherever – or whenever – they wanted. It had felt strange, at first, to sit together deliberately in public without trying to make it look coincidental; they'd finally gotten the proper hang of it, oh, sometime in the past week.

Crowley hadn't felt dread in so long that, initially, as he walked into his flat late that night and felt a cold, foul presence accompanied by the scent of brimstone, he had to pause just to comprehend what this strange long-lost feeling _was_.

_I don't like this, it feels spooky_, he thought unironically for the first time in his life, and was immediately disgusted with himself.

Usually, even now, he _liked_ spooky. Not this, though. This was something else. Something personal.

There was a shadow by the window – directly across from his chair, desk, and ansaphone – which shouldn't have been there. It was too inky dark to be natural and there was absolutely nothing to cast it in the first place.

A pair of blood-red eyes glowed, almost as if disembodied, in the black mist.

His chest clenched. Dread was so much worse than Crowley remembered. "Lucifer. It's been a long time."

The shadow began to shift, those red eyes momentarily vanishing. A figure stepped out, approaching the desk in a slow saunter. At first it was unformed, like a person shaped entirely from smoke, before it settled into a form that – apart from the nasty expression on its face – bore a striking similarity to none other than Aziraphale.

"Hello, darling."

The demon's legs were jelly. He took a tremulous step backwards, nearly falling, catching himself against the side of his chair just in time, mid-wobble.

"I thought," said Lucifer, gesturing down at himself, "this form might please you – it seems to be what you like these days. Letting standards drop rather a lot, aren't we, Crowley?"

Crowley didn't answer.

"Not going to ask me how I've managed such a perfect impression?" The devil fingered the edge of the desk teasingly. "I thought you'd be a little more concerned for your friend."

"You can't have done anything to him, I'd know." He'd left the angel safe in his bookshop less than twenty-minutes ago.

"Oh, you're no _fun_." Satan sighed, waving that off. "But you're right, I haven't laid a finger on him. Of course, I _could_ have done. I've been watching him for months now, but you didn't know _that_, did you?"

Crowley tensed; Satan smiled.

"Now, unless I'm mistaken, you're probably wondering why I'd take such an interest in that fat angel."

Crowley tried to regulate his breathing. Satan _wanted_ him on edge, upset. He knew that. He didn't even _need_ to breathe; so why the Heaven couldn't he will himself to _stop_? He need to control his fear, his emotions.

The less he seemed to care, the better off both he and Aziraphale would most likely be. That is, if they weren't already completely fu–

"_Crowley_! Are you listening to me?"

He hadn't been, he'd been more preoccupied with the drumming of his heart vibrating madly in his ears.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I_ said _I know how you survived your trial ten years ago." The devil came nearer. "I had a most interesting conversation with the demon who brought hellfire to Heaven for the angel's sentencing – a little disposable nothing of a demon, of course, but with rather a lot to say under the right circumstances. It seems that he has always wanted to hit an angel. An admirable ambition, if a bit broad. But we all love our simple pleasures now and again, don't we?"

Having worked out where this was going, Crowley slunk down into his chair. Perhaps if he seemed defeated the devil wouldn't... Wouldn't what? Wouldn't kill him? Or threaten Aziraphale? Or drag him back down to Hell and lock him a damp cell with a hungry hell-hound? There was no precursor for what Crowley had done, and thus no way of knowing how Satan would react, how he would punish him. He'd become too lenient in the last decade. Too proud of that lovely little charade he and Aziraphale pulled off. Now it was all going to come unravelled before his eyes.

"So this demon gets permission to hit your friend. But, wouldn't you know it, when he approaches what was supposed to be a defenceless, tied up angel, he sees..." The devil pretended to study Aziraphale's elegantly manicured hands in false passivity. "But you know all too well what happens next. Tell me what he sees, won't you, darling?"

"Honestly, Lucifer..." Crowley forced a bemused shrug. "How could I? It's not like I was _there_."

Satan dropped the pretence of coolness, gritting his teeth. "Oh, I think you _were_, Crowley. I truly do." The hand that resembled Aziraphale's but felt cold and bony and very, very thin despite its vice-like strength clamped down over Crowley's wrist in a flash, squeezing it. "You switched places, you and your angelic best friend, _didn't_ you? You lying, sorry excuse for a demon!"

"It was self preservation! You weren't exactly about to stop them executing me!"

"Have you forgotten who you're speaking to? This isn't Hastur come to collect you. I'm your _master_." He squeezed harder, tightening his grasp until Crowley moaned involuntarily.

"Not any more," he gasped out, thinking he must have suddenly become very brave or else gone entirely mad.

Letting go of Crowley's wrist and sitting down on the side of the desk, Satan clicked his tongue chidingly. "So that's how it is? You don't want to be one of us any longer? Don't want to serve me after all I've done for you?" He reached over and touched the side of the demon's face gingerly with the back of two fingers. "Why didn't you just tell me? I'm only too happy to give you what you want."

He flinched. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." Satan twisted the face he currently possessed into a parody of Aziraphale's warmest smile. "Though you know what they say about making deals with the devil. Always a little catch." He stopped stroking Crowley's cheek and pressed one hand over his heart dramatically. "Otherwise where's the fun in it for _me_?"

"So you're going to leave us alone?" Crowley ventured hopefully.

"You idiot." He chuckled. "_No_." Then seemed to think. "Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. You want to spend all your time cavorting with angels? Then I think you ought to go back to _being_ one."

There was a clenched, drippy feeling of his head filling slowly with something sticky like molasses. It was like he was suddenly drunk. His mouth puckered awkwardly as he tried to speak. "But...you don't have that power..." In theory _God_ could reclaim a fallen angel, bring them back into the fold, _in theory_. But it had never happened before. The devil certainly couldn't just announce that one of his demons was broken and send it back for a refund.

Even if the notion wasn't completely ludicrous in and of itself, Crowley was reasonably positive that there was no such thing as a six thousand year warranty.

"I don't _need_ it, darling." Satan slid from the side of the desk onto the arm of Crowley's chair in one single, fluid motion, like he was Mary freaking Poppins going up the bannister. "See, the way I'm thinking of it, you don't actually need to _be_ an angel – you only need to not remember you aren't one. If your memories stop right before the rebellion, well, that's got to make for one jolly extravaganza of a show, doesn't it? Just like hitting a reset button but so, so much more entertaining."

While he didn't particularly want his memories of the past six thousand years to disappear – most inconvenient, if nothing else – Crowley didn't exactly see how that punished him – or Aziraphale, for that matter – for what they'd done during their respective trials.

"You don't even remember what you were _like_ as an angel, do you?" laughed Satan. "You've been down here too long. Well, _I_ remember. You were _quite_ the flamboyant arsehole. A right prick. It's why we got along so well."

Crowley's eyelids were beginning to shut as if something was forcing them down with a heavy weight. "I don't understand..."

"And _that's_ why I spent the last few months studying your pudgy bookish friend. I wanted to be sure my guess was correct. You're companions born of convenience. He's not at all the sort you would have sought out in the old days. And _that_, darling, is what is going to be so fascinating about this brilliant experiment of mine. _You're_ going to hurt him so much more than the forces of Heaven or Hell ever could."

Right before his eyes clamped all the way shut, Crowley had the sensation of the ceiling above him shifting blurringly. Somehow the chair was vanished from underneath them and he was inexplicably on the cold floor of the flat with Lucifer's arms wrapped around him.

"You seem so miserable," the devil mused, with faux concern.

"_Hurts_," the demon managed before his lips went numb and he couldn't move them at all any more.

And it _did_ hurt, rather a lot. It didn't_ have_ to, it was only a memory wipe, but the devil liked for it to, especially in this case.

The burning, the headache, the feeling of bones being crushed deep in Crowley's skull were completely optional but Satan had optioned for each one at its maxim potency. He would have said he wanted to make sure the wayward demon never forgot this – but, well, that would have rather defeated the point.

"Look on the bright side, darling. At least you're in your best friend's arms."

* * *

The houseplants were trembling the next morning as their – usually domineering and terrifying – owner walked up to them in a wholly unfamiliar manner.

He wasn't stomping, or scowling. He wasn't scrutinizing for brown spots or for failure to grow to his standard. They trembled with fear, yet he only reached out to touch a single green leaf with a fingertip and gaze marvellingly at it.

He fixed his snaky eyes on each one, as if he were seeing them for the first time and wondering where something so beautiful could have possibly come from.

Then he wandered out of the room, and presumably out of the flat as well.

There was a crash in the hallway. Somebody – one of the other occupants of the building – screamed.

"_Pervert_!"

"_Put some clothes on_!"

"_What the hell, mate_?"

The plants' owner came running back in with – luckily tepid – coffee dripping down his chin.

"What strange creatures." He glanced down at his bare self. "Oh, bother. I seem to be unclothed. That must be what the ungodly fuss was about."

From the plants' continued prospective, it looked as if he were momentarily constipated or else trying to pass a rather large kidney stone. In actuality, he was attempting to miracle some sort of covering over himself – something like what the screaming persons in the hallway had been wearing. He didn't know where he was and he wanted to find out more, but he couldn't rush back out there to have bean-scented liquid tossed in his face again.

"Not working." He frowned. "Hmm." Perhaps there was something in the other room. He could fashion something from the sheets he'd woken up all tangled in if he had to – though he thought it wouldn't look right. The other creatures that shared his shape yet were clearly not of his species – too material, not an inch of them ethereal – weren't striding about in sheets.

The closets were empty, and the sheets were starting to seem like the only viable option, but he did find a pair of pyjamas and a navy blue dressing-gown in a bottom drawer at last. They were too big for his thin frame. Probably they belonged to somebody bulkier. Well, if he fastened the dressing-gown just so it would hold the rest in place and at least he could leave this enclosure.

He went back to the plants and gave them a friendly nod and they watched, poor puzzled plants, as he strode out in nightclothes, barefooted and wide-eyed.

* * *

Outside the building was chaos. Delightful chaos, no doubt, to those who knew what was going on, but the lost angel did not. He _wanted_ to enjoy it. The air was sweet, the strange creatures were doing all manner of odd things, rushing about this way and that. There were other creatures, little ones with wings, singing above his head. Strange contraptions zoomed about on the road (he learned quickly not to stray from the pavement, no matter how tempting). Only he could take in none of these wonders properly until he figured out where he was – where his own kind were. Why he was here, as well. What _was_ this material place?

No, the first order of business was to find another angel.

The creatures were looking at him funny. At first he tried smiling at them offhandedly, but they continued giving him the stink eye. He was covered up now, though, what more did they _want_? Some little versions of the creatures were being pulled away by big ones who looked at him, grimaced, and made a point of dragging their spawn rather conspicuously across the street, away from the mad fellow in the dressing-gown.

So, pretty quickly, he started frowning at them. It wasn't that he didn't like them, however. They seemed interesting. They didn't have to look at him like _that_. He wasn't going to _hurt_ them.

The lost angel stopped before a television display in a shop window. What had got his attention was the film playing on the screen, which claimed to be about angels but actually seemed to focus more on some sort of game where the strange creatures hit a ball with a big stick and ran around in a circle while a dramatic soundtrack played and a crowd cheered and flapped their arms. The story was that the angels wanted one team to hit more balls with the stick – for some reason or other. They weren't really angels, either, just those creatures again, _acting_ as angels. Not remotely helpful. What _held_ his attention, however, was his reflection. His eyes! They were... Yellow. And they had slits.

"That's new," he said, to no one in particular.

He didn't _have_ yellow eyes. He was certain that, before today, his eyes had been a golden-brown colour and had looked much less scary. He'd seen them reflected off mirror-shined desks in heaven, and off gleaming stars. They'd been quite normal angelic eyes.

Perhaps this change was what bothered the creatures. None of _them_ had creepy eyes. Their eyes were less expressive than angels' but otherwise not very different.

If this was a joke, it was starting to frighten him. This was becoming very real, very fast.

He didn't know where he was, or how to get out.

It was one thing to awaken in a strange wonderland with a million dizzying sights – it was another entirely not to know what to do while you were there, or how to get home again.

Oh no. He had just remembered. He was supposed to present a report on the newest nebula he'd helped build to headquarters today. They would all be waiting for him. Sometimes he thought the other archangels didn't like him very much – and this certainly wasn't going to help endear him to them. Uriel _might _forgive him, but Michael and Gabriel were going to be furious if he was late again. Sandalphon didn't get furious – he got punchy. There were still bruises on his arm from last time he was tardy. Or at least, he'd _thought _there were – he couldn't actually feel them just now. He wished he could arrange for someone to cover for him until he got there. He knew a couple of angels who'd do him a solid, if only he knew how to get in touch with them. This strange little adventure had to end before he got himself demoted.

"This place is seriously in need of some of those handy 'You Are Here' maps," he muttered, nudging a pebble aside with his bare toes, which were starting to look rather dirty (there was a wad of chewing gum stuck to one of his heels as well).

The lost angel trudged doggedly down several streets and was almost at the end of his endurance, almost ready to sit down on the pavement and put his head in his hands out of pure despair, when he saw a building up ahead that looked promising.

Tall spires, impressive stone masonry, a tower from which rang out a celestial-sounding bell... There were even depictions of angels made up of beautifully coloured glass in the windows. There might be a representative of his kind inside. _They'd_ tell him how to get back to Heaven.

As soon as the lost angel hopped onto the steps, about to walk over the threshold, burning pain seared through his bare feet. He yelped in surprise, glancing down to see tiny curls of smoke forming around his ankles.

In blind terror and agonising pain, the lost angel fled, racing across the street and darting about frantically.

Tears began to sting the back of his eyes when he noticed what at that moment was the most welcome sight in the universe.

There was another angel – a plump, platinum-haired one whistling pleasantly to himself as he walked – only a few feet away. He appeared to be carrying a small brown parcel and there was some excitable reverence evident in the gentle way he grasped it, as if it contained something truly precious.

"Oh, thank _God_!" The lost angel rushed forward, and nearly lost him in the huddle of creatures that crossed from the opposite way and began jostling him to and fro, letting the other angel – so cheerily oblivious to his distress – get further and further ahead.

When he caught up with the other angel again, he had slipped into a shop that smelled of old paper. The lost angel was hot on his heels. He was not about to let himself be abandoned, not with his potential rescuer so close at hand. He was like a drowning man at sea throwing himself into a lifeboat.

All the same, the other angel still made it to the back room, where a rustling indicated he was happily opening up his parcel.

The distressed, lost angel located, with some difficulty, a service bell and began banging his palm down on it urgently.

He didn't know the angel's name, so:

"Oi, angel!" Ding, ding, ding. "Hello? _Angel_!"

The angel appeared, looking flustered. "Crowley, I'm _here_ – what seems to be the problem?" His eyes widened. "Good Heavens, are those _my_ pyjamas?"

The lost angel smiled what he thought was a megawatt angelic smile but was actually more reminiscent of a serpent with severe toothache. "Words cannot express how happy I am to see you!"

"Er, well, it's nice to see you, too, my dear, but I really must–" He was cut off by a – rather forceful – hug. "_Oof_."

As the lost angel pulled away, beaming, he said, "You've got to tell me your name and rank after this – I'll definitely put in a good word for you, get you promoted if you like." He'd work it out...somehow... The others would just have to live with it. "I'm that relieved." He clasped his rescuer's warm, cleanly manicured hands in his own, which felt gnarled and clammy in comparison.

"Crowley, _what _are_ you talking about_?"

The lost angel blinked, once, very slowly. "Who's Crowley?"

"_You're_ Crowley," the other angel said, a touch desperately, glancing down at their still interlocked hands.

"No, I'm most definitely _not_." He shook his head. "My name's Raphael. What's yours?"

**A/N: Reviews welcome, reply may be delayed.**


	2. Part 2 of 4

_The Sort of Thing You Forget_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part 2 of 4

"Raphael? As in the _arch_angel Raphael?" Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

"Yep. That's me. A right archy archangel. Field worker, mainly, star-spreading division. Which would be why we haven't seen each other about headquarters. Still waiting on your introduction. You can start with your name, and work up to where exactly we are in the universe."

Aziraphale stared at him, nonplussed. What had gotten into Crowley? Was this some manner of joke? But then where, precisely, was the humour in his claiming to be, not only an archangel, but the one archangel who had disappeared during the rebellion, presumably now one of the legions of demons in Hell sporting name changes since the good old days?

For lack of anything else to say or do, the angel finally pulled his hands free and murmured, "This isn't funny."

"I don't understand." Crowley's expression was bizarrely guileless; Aziraphale had never seen his friend's face so entirely void of even the smallest planned mischief. "Listen, fellow angel, you have _got_ to help me. I'm–"

Aziraphale let out a startled yelp. He'd just allowed his gaze to slide downwards and was horrified by what he saw. "What have you done to your poor feet!"

Crowley glanced down. "Ah. Yes._ That_ bit of bother."

"_Bit of bother_?" gasped Aziraphale. "_Crowley_! They're red as boiled lobsters and covered in blisters!"

"They do hurt rather a lot, now that you mention it," he admitted, a trifle sheepishly, shifting from one foot to the other and grimacing. "Oh, and, _again_, my name isn't Crowley."

"What the hell are you playing at?"

"Playing?" He sounded incensed. "I'm not _playing_. I'm bloody terrified. Here I am going out of my mind, you can't _imagine_ the day I've had, lost as anything, and you're looking at me like I just murdered your best friend!"

"Wait." Aziraphale held up a hand. "Are you seriously saying you have no idea where you are or who I am?"

"Yeah, that's generally what happens when somebody finds themselves in a strange place talking to a _stranger_, isn't it?" The tone had grown tetchy. "I'm sorry, that's uncharitable. A fellow angel is never truly a stranger. Regardless of rank." He sized Aziraphale up and down in a manner that suggested his previous relief at finding him had dissipated a bit, leaving room for the barest touch of snobbery. "Though I'd reckon it's not very high in your case, amirite?"

It was a testament to Aziraphale's overall good nature that he did not find this remark obnoxious. Instead, he was filled – almost overwhelmingly – with pity. Whatever manner of mental breakdown Crowley was having had left him in the loneliest mindset Aziraphale could fathom.

Imagine just how alone...how utterly _alone_...

Crowley had never actually mentioned he'd been an archangel before. Or really anything more than the basest of angelic ranks. Aziraphale would never have suspected it. There were little indicators, here and there, but they were only falling into place in retrospect.

What a long, long way to have sauntered vaguely downwards from!

Aziraphale reached out and patted Crowley's shoulder forgivingly. "Wait right here. I'm going to get something for your feet."

* * *

As soon as the angel was out of sight, Raphael made a beeline for his desk. There ought to be something there telling him who his rather bumbling rescuer was. His feet smarted as he trotted over – he continued to ignore the pain. It could have been worse.

Atop a stack of promising-looking parchment was a dictionary left open to the first page. Raphael glanced down at it, briefly scanned its contents, registered them as fairly useless, and then slid the heavy tome aside.

_Thud_.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if the angel was coming back to investigate the noise.

He wasn't.

"Come on," Raphael muttered, shuffling through a handful of papers. "There's got to be something here..." He stopped. _Notes on Current Theories on the Creation of the Universe by Aziraphale, Angel of the Ninth Choir of the Malachim and Part-time Rare Book-dealer._ "Wot? Oh, I get it, he's a _Principality_. Explains a lot. That's a something of a joke these days. I guess it's my own fault; I should have talked a lot slower. Probably confused him. Well, beggars can't be choosers." He trailed his fingers down the length of the parchment. "_Love_ the copperplate handwriting, though! It's so unbelievably _neat_." His eyes surveyed the contents of the parchment further down. "Earth is a Libra. Right, got a location. _Earth_. Good."

If he wasn't mistaken, this Aziraphale had to have a way to communicating with Heaven stashed around here some place. If the non-angel creatures came and went from this shop on a regular basis, the Principality likely had it hidden – wouldn't do for them to see it and lose their minds.

What was the most obvious place – for an_ angel_?

He wandered about, leaving the main room and wandering about the back. He didn't see Aziraphale, who must be deeper within this matchstick labyrinth, no doubt. He could hear running water. It was just as well. Perhaps he could help himself from here on out. Although, in all fairness, he still planned to recommend Aziraphale for a promotion – out of courtesy. He was an archangel of his word after all.

Raphael's roving eye settled on a large rug. Tugging it away, he found a dust-encrusted celestial chalk circle underneath. The level of neglect was deplorable, but he would ignore that for the time being. He was beginning to feel in control of his circumstances again. All that was needed were some candles and he'd get this show on the road!

* * *

The good news was that Aziraphale had – as he'd hoped – a jar of balm in the lavatory cupboard to treat the burns on Crowley's feet, and after some digging he'd unearthed the clothing he'd worn to Crowley's trial in Hell a decade ago – the one with the tartan collar the demon refused to accept was stylish. These were the only articles of clothing in Crowley's size he possessed, given that the demon liked to make clothing appear over himself rather than buy anything. The bad news was that while there _was_ a spare pair of sunglasses somewhere about the shop, as well, Aziraphale hadn't had any luck locating them.

Well, that was the least of their worries at the moment.

It fluttered like a stray moth through the angel's mind, flowing benignly past the more important thoughts, how he'd secretly suspected for the last few thousand years Crowley deliberately deepened his voice to sound tougher and that – given the heavenly alto timbre 'Raphael' spoke with – he'd been right.

It felt wrong, knowing this for certain. He wished he didn't, that it was still a mystery.

With a helpless shrug directed at his own reflection, he loosened the rusty taps and began to run a bath. Crowley desperately needed one before he changed out of those – doubtless ruined – pyjamas Aziraphale had left at his place the last time he'd stayed over. The demon reeked of bad coffee and burnt flesh, with an odd hint of dog excrement – perhaps he'd stepped in some on the way.

The scent of candles and incense suddenly tickled Aziraphale's nostrils and he froze in momentary horror before hurriedly twisting the hot tap back into the off position. "He _wouldn't_!"

He would.

Sure enough, Aziraphale stepped out of the lavatory to find Crowley before the circle – which was powered up and glowing, enshrouded by candles – chattering away like he was addressing a persnickety phone operator.

"Yes, that's right. I need to speak to Lucifer. Patch me through as quick as you can. His address is 66th Morningstar, Nebula-Route 6... Please, it's very important. Tell him it's Raphael. I need him to–" Crowley stopped, frowning into the white light. "Right, fine. Look, I really don't see what's so difficult about this. _Lucifer_. L-U-C-I..."

The Metatron, whose head Aziraphale could now see in the centre of the circle, his face creased with frustration and impatience, irately bellowed, "IS THIS A _JOKE_?"

Aziraphale raced over, stationing himself in front of Crowley protectively. "That's right, you got us. Jokers. Prank call, what." He pumped a fist in the air. "_Heh_. Jolly good."

"But this isn't a _prank_," snapped Crowley. "I'm already incredibly late for work, you know. Not to mention stranded on a godforsaken molten rock in the middle of nowhere. I need Lucifer to come and get me."

"You_ really_ don't," Aziraphale bleated in an awkward squeak over his shoulder as he frantically tried to blow out as many candles as possible, chest heaving and breath puffing out in short anxious spurts. "Trust me." The candles out, he began waving at the vanishing head of the Metatron. "Good-bye. Yes, that's it. Have a nice day."

"What did you have to go and do _that_ for?" hissed Crowley.

"_Me_?" spluttered Aziraphale. "Are you insane? Do you know what they could–" That was just it, though, wasn't it? Crowley _didn't _know. "Come this way, my dear. You and I need to have a little talk."

* * *

"So, let me see if I've got this right," Raphael said slowly, scooting to the edge of the couch Aziraphale had guided him over to before beginning to tell the most outrageous story he'd ever heard in his life. "You're saying there was a rebellion – up in Heaven. Big war, lots of celestial carnage and_ bam bam bam_..." He chopped a hand through the air for dramatic effect. "And I literally got _kicked out of Heaven_ for being on the wrong side?"

"That's right," said the Principality miserably. "And that is only the _start_ of what you seem to have inexplicably forgotten."

"No..." He shivered and shook his head. "No. I wouldn't. I _wouldn't_."

Aziraphale winced. "You did, though."

"There has to be some mistake." Raphael mentally ran through a list of angels he knew would vouch for him. _Jeremiel. Islington. Lucifer. _"Ask Lucifer if you don't believe me. He knows I would never–" Why was Aziraphale looking at him like that? "_What_?"

"Erm, well, Lucifer's the one who _started_ the rebellion."

"But he's such a sweet guy!" Raphael cried. "We just went to Alpha Centauri together last weekend. Just decided to run away for a couple days. He seemed fine then."

"Wait." Aziraphale looked offended. "You went to Alpha Centauri with _Lucifer_?"

"Yes, Alpha Centauri. Lucifer. Keep up. Read my lips."

"You. Went. To. Alpha. Centauri. With. Lucifer."

"Stop parroting me!" Raphael whined. "Can't you see I'm languishing in despair over here?"

"Funny how you never actually mentioned that to me before." The skin around Aziraphale's mouth had tightened considerably, and his eyes were narrowed. "You wanted me to run away with you to some place you'd already been with _Satan_? Do you take _all_ your best friends there?"

"What _are _you going on about?"

He sighed. "Never mind. The thing is, Cro–"

Raphael coughed pointedly.

"The thing _is_..." He sighed again. "The thing is that wasn't last weekend. It was over six thousand years ago. I'm so sorry."

"No. I can't... I can't accept that."

"You don't have a choice. Lucifer isn't... He isn't like you're remembering him. He's changed."

"And I'm not an angel?"

"No, my dear, I'm sorry."

"But that's stupid. What_ am_ I, then? An aardvark?"

"A demon."

"That sounds bad."

"You seem to manage it all right, usually."

Raphael wanted to stand up and pace circles around the couch and around the Principality's chair. If his feet weren't still hurting so much he'd have done so.

"Is that why I can't do miracles? I'm powerless now that this rebellion has–"

"Oh, no, no, you have powers," Aziraphale assured him. "They're just occult. You'd use them differently, I suppose. I never really asked..."

"I wish to God you had," sighed Raphael. "I could really use that information right about now. So. I take it we're not strangers after all? How long have _we_ known each other?"

"Oh, since the beginning of the earth – Garden of Eden. We met right on the gate. It's been around six thousand years since that happened, too."

"You know, the crazy thing is, if my next meeting at Headquarters went according to plan, I was supposed to take over Gabriel's position next week. Retire from the star-making for a couple millennia. Well, I suppose it_ isn't_ next week, really, but for me it..." Raphael sniffed.

"Oh, goodness, you would have been my _boss_!" exclaimed Aziraphale.

"What do I do _now_?"

"Now you have a bath and then let me take you out to breakfast." The Principality rose from his place and gestured in the direction of the lavatory. "There's balm for your feet and I've laid your clothes out."

"Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

"_Thank _you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

When Crowley did not reemerge from the lavatory after a considerable amount of time (they were going to have to settle for Lunch instead of Breakfast at this point, in all probability), Aziraphale decided to check on him.

He opened the door a crack, and was just about to announce himself, halting upon catching sight of what was easily the saddest, most pitiful thing he'd ever seen.

Crowley was sitting in the tub with his knees drawn to his chest, leaning forward with his dripping chin resting on the left kneecap. His wings were out, half hanging over the side, a few feathers trailing in the water.

Unaware he was being observed, the demon reached up and wiped the side of his nose with the back of his wrist.

_He's been _crying_, poor thing_, Aziraphale thought, and hastily withdrew.

Seeing one of God's creatures in such a miserable state made his chest clench. The least he could do was not humiliate the distressed soul by drawing attention to it. He wanted so badly to comfort him – to comfort whatever small piece of the Crowley he knew was left in there – but he was wise enough to know there are some things it's more dignified to allow a person to face on their own, some interventions that do more harm than good.

Crowley need never know he'd seen him like this.

Though, if he took the notion, he might wonder why the water, which had been steadily growing colder, was suddenly as warm as a friendly embrace.

* * *

Raphael barely touched the food at their table, though he had nothing but positive things to say about it, too preoccupied with scribbling out an urgent list onto a napkin and tapping Aziraphale – who had to swallow whatever mouthful of food _he'd_ just taken a bite of – on the shoulder to ask him about the last name he'd added.

Aziraphale looked at the name and shook his head. "I don't know any _Ramiel_, either, I'm sorry."

"I suppose he's a demon now, too?"

"Could be. Who else have you come up with?" Aziraphale tilted the napkin towards himself. "Who's 'Little Skippy Angel With The Dingy Halo'?"

"I don't know his _name_," Raphael admitted. "He says good morning to me sometimes. He covered for me once when I was late." His brow furrowed. "_Badly_, mind you. Sandalphon hit us both for making him look bad. But the thought was there."

"Don't take this the wrong way," Aziraphale sighed, shifting uncomfortably and returning the napkin to Raphael as he visibly arrived at rather a tragic conclusion. "But...well...are...that is were...any of these angels actually your _friends_?"

Raphael felt his cheeks grow hot. He tugged at his collar. "M'sure they were. Must have been."

They sat in strained silence until the bill arrived. Raphael swallowed some tea and poked absently with his fork at a slice of apple pie. He ate some of the filling and left behind the crust.

* * *

Because Crowley didn't remember he had a Bentley, or – in all likelihood – what a Bentley even _was_, and Aziraphale had never driven a vehicle in his life, they'd taken a bus which – on the route back – stopped a few streets shy of the bookshop.

As they walked along the pavement, Crowley paused under a swinging wooden sign that read _R.C. Tailoring & Alterations_.

Craning his neck he stared at it before turning back to Aziraphale. "You don't happen to have any earthly currency leftover from lunch? I'd pay you back."

"You want new clothes?"

He nodded earnestly.

"But you _never_ buy clothes," Aziraphale said quietly. Seeing Crowley emerge from the lavatory looking – at least a little – like his old, proper self, save for the tartan collar and missing sunglasses, had been the only stability in his day thus far. He knew it was silly feel put out over 'Raphael' wanting to take that away from him, but he couldn't help it.

"The hideous eyes are bad enough. Please let me have this, Aziraphale, I look like a _criminal_."

_No, you look like my _best friend_._ "They're not hideous." But he agreed to give him the money – of course he did.

Aziraphale followed him in and sat on a painted iron-grate bench while his friend was measured and a handful of light-coloured suit pieces and scarves were carried in by the tailor's gangly, flat-chested assistants.

"It's the best we can do if you _must_ have something _today_," the tailor said, a smidgen disapprovingly, pulling back the curtain for Crowley to step out. "We can do further alternations in the future, though."

Aziraphale, rising to his feet, recoiled when he saw Crowley properly.

"I didn't think I looked that bad." The demon glanced down at the business-causal powder-blue suit self-consciously.

"You don't look _bad_, Crowley," Aziraphale managed weakly, wringing his hands. "You just reminded me of Gabriel for a moment there. He dresses similarly." It was off-putting, that was all.

"How many times must I remind you my name is _not_ Crowley?"

"Evidently at least once more, my dear," he replied glumly.

"Oh, don't be upset with me, good angel." It was amazing how the inclusion of 'good' so drastically changed the former endearment into something almost meaningless. "I'm sorry to be harsh," he went on, struggling to make amends, "I'm just sensitive about my appearance right now. When I find out _who_ cut off all my hair, I'm–"

"_You_ made it shorter."

"_Oh_. Right then." He motioned at the snake tattoo on the side of his face. "Well, when did I get _this _done?"

"You've had that a long time – I can't really picture you without it."

"Clearly the fall from Heaven damaged whatever was left of my common sense," he groused. "Not to mention any good taste I might have had."

"You didn't fall," sighed Aziraphale wistfully. "You just sauntered vaguely downwards."

* * *

Raphael was proud of the canopied fort he'd constructed in the middle of his flat's lounge.

Given the fact that he supposedly could never return to Heaven, he thought maybe he'd just live in it from now on and wait for the end of the world. He'd perked up some when – on the way to the building – Aziraphale had pointed out the beautiful black car on the curb and told him it was his. Delighted, he'd even made a corny joke about how he could just sit in the driver's seat and honk the horn to signal the end of the world whenever it came around.

Now, however, he was beginning to feel melancholy again.

He tried to distract himself with the only book he found in the entire flat and had brought with him into the fort on the off chance he wanted to peruse it: _The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy_. He was glad it had a lot of pictures – Raphael, despite his love of creating things, had a secret tendency towards laziness that disinclined him, at times, towards reading.

"Hello again. Just me." Aziraphale, holding a decanter and two glasses, slipped under the canopy with a shocked expression on his face. "You built this in the three minutes I was gone?"

Raphael beamed, looking up from the page he'd been mulling over. The praise of a fellow angel made him feel better. "Oh, this is nothing. I _like_ making things. You should see what I did to my office–" He broke off, stricken. "Oh no. My _office_. It's been six thousand years, right? They'll have... Ugh! I hate them all, damn them. You should have seen it. I had a big neon sign with my name on it over my desk."

"Neon. Impressive," said Aziraphale, not as if it really were.

"Well, actually some of the letters burned out, so technically it said _RAL_, but the _design_ was good."

"Good heavens." Aziraphale's eyes darted about the length of the fort. "It's bigger on the inside."

"What is?"

"Your fort."

"Oh. Yeah. Pretty amazing, right?"

"Indeed. But I thought you couldn't use your powers."

"I didn't," he said brightly. "I'm just _that_ good."

"And so modest." Aziraphale eased down onto a cushion and set the decanter between the pair of them. "Here. Let me see your feet before I pour the wine."

Raphael pulled a pair of dark socks off his bandaged feet. He peeled back the bandages. "They're a lot better now – thank you."

"Wriggle your toes for me." The angel leaned over and began to rub his foot and assess, by feel, how it was healing. "_There_. I still can't believe you tried to enter a church. It's consecrated ground; you're a _demon_."

"I didn't _know_ that."

"I wish we knew what_ happened_," Aziraphale lamented, gently digging his thumb into the arch of Raphael's left foot once more for good measure before letting it drop back onto the nearest cushion. "Then perhaps we could fix this."

"_Fix_ it?" Raphael propped himself up onto his elbows. "How? Like, get my memories back, you mean?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"See, I've been thinking about that – a lot." He smiled shakily, turning a page he hadn't actually looked at yet. "I'm not sure I _want_ them back."

"You don't?"

"If you'd committed a bad sin, wouldn't_ you_ want to forget it?"

"Oh, _Crowley_..."

Sitting all the way up, Raphael dragged the heavy book into his lap, made a show of focusing all his attention on it as if he were alone in the fort, and sang, "La, la, _la_..." pointedly, refusing to acknowledge his companion until he realised his mistake.

"_Raphael_," he amended, but as if it galled him.

"Yes?" he replied, with exaggerated sweetness.

"What you did–"

"It's _different_ for you, Aziraphale." He closed the book and set it down beside him. "_You_ didn't pick the wrong side."

"Only I'm not in Heaven's good books, either." He lifted the crystal stopper out of the decanter and began to pour wine into the glasses. "Not any more. It's just us, you and me. We don't have sides here."

Raphael took the glass Aziraphale offered him. "Thank you. So what you're telling me is I'm stuck here – with just you – _forever_?"

"You don't have to put it like_ that_," he said, hurt.

"I'm sorry, I simply meant–"

"I forgive you."

"All right." Raphael felt like he'd been backed into a corner – he wanted to keep going, only it was wrong to reject an offer of forgiveness. "But why didn't you let me finish?"

"Because I can't cope with any imaginable way you were going to end that sentence, and it's cruel of you to ask me to."

They drank for a while, subdued, then, a bit more merry as the alcohol entered their bloodstreams, began to laugh and share stories as if the previous coldness between them had never occurred.

Until, that is, Raphael drunkenly launched into a tale of one of his and Lucifer's escapades up in heaven. "Gabriel was furious," he slurred. "Just furious. So...wait, listen...you'll like this bit...it's too good... Listen." He burped, then barrelled ahead, wholly ignorant to the minefield he was approaching. "We had to come up with something...and we totally blamed it on this random Principality. _Sucker_." He gave Aziraphale a friendly nudge with his elbow, accidentally sloshing his wineglass so that a few deep-red drops stained the front of the angel's shirt. "You should have seen the look on–"

"_Thank you_," said Aziraphale darkly, looking angrier than Raphael had yet seen him.

"Oh." Raphael appeared to suddenly realise who he was talking to. "Come _on_. Don't tell me that was _you_."

"Right. M'going to sober up." The decanter refilled halfway and Aziraphale crawled over a pile of blankets towards the edge of the canopy to let himself out. The spilled wine on his shirt had flowered out slightly, looking for all the world like little bloody bullet wounds on the angel's chest. "I'm going back to the bookshop. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait, hang on. You don't have to go. Don't–" Raphael tried to go after him but was unable to recall the process it took to remove the alcohol from his material body and thus was still so drunk he fell forward, flat on his face.

**A/N: Yes, those references to Doctor Who and Neverwhere _were_ deliberate. **

**Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed. **


	3. Part 3 of 4

**A/N: Thank you to my guest reviewer. You've been lovely and I'm enjoying reading your comments so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying this. **

**Also, this was originally going to be a 3-shot story but I've decided to go ahead and divide my planned ending into two chapters, making it a four-parter instead. It just seems better paced this way. So the _next_ chapter will be the last. I'm sorry if this confuses/disappoints any readers out there, 'twas not my intention. **

_The Sort of Thing You Forget_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part 3 of 4

A scruffy young man jumped out from an alleyway which adjoined to the last street before it was very nearly a straight shot to the bookshop. He drew a stiletto from under his dark-hued jacket and held it up threateningly. "Give me your wallet."

Sighing with visible exhaustion, Aziraphale shook his head. "I really am in _no mood_ for this."

"You think I'm joking around here?" he sneered.

Aziraphale flicked a beringed little finger at the would-be mugger – hardly more than a silly kid, really, likely no more than sixteen or seventeen by his guess – and the young man found himself, quite suddenly, several streets away standing directly in front of a police station.

The angel continued on. He'd have gladly snapped his fingers and made the mugger leave London entirely, Aziraphale was _that_ upset; but given the boy was so young and his parents – if he had any who were worth the trouble – might be waiting for him at home, and the angel still hadn't worked out where snapping his fingers actually sent people, whether or not it was some place terrible, the less dramatic reprimanding finger-flick had seemed the best course of action.

Once he'd reached the bookshop and let himself in, Aziraphale made himself two mugs of cocoa.

Two, because he spoiled the first.

Every time he recalled the look on Crowley's face back in the fort as he told that horrible story, his hands shook and he felt power come out of him the wrong way – he accidentally miracled the milk into old age, curdling it. Would have been a good thing if he'd wanted _cheese_, perhaps, but it made the cocoa unsalvageable.

The second was drinkable, before he forgot about it, leaving it to congeal on his desk.

He tried to read the book he'd been unwrapping when Crowley had first come into the shop in his pyjamas and rung the bell like it was going out of style, but he couldn't concentrate and eventually gave up.

He didn't sleep. Aziraphale rarely slept. It had always seemed a waste of time when there was so much good to be done, so many books to be devoured while burning the midnight oil. He didn't_ need_ it, after all, and angels didn't dream, so there was no real pleasure to it; it wasn't like the way he could still _taste _things when he ate them, irregardless of his not needing the nutrients.

Sleep often seemed rather pointless to him, really. It was far more Crowley's nature of thing.

Sometime around six or seven in the morning, Aziraphale still in the same chair he'd sat in with his untasted cocoa so many hours before, the bookshop phone rang.

Getting up wearily, he lifted the receiver. "Hello?"

"_M'dying_."

Crowley. Well, _Raphael_, he supposed – he didn't think he'd ever quite get used to that.

"What do you mean you're dying?"

"I _mean_," came the peevish alto voice from the other end, "my head feels like it's about to split open, I'm sweating like anything, and I was sick all over my lavatory floor. I think I'm about to discorporate. Probably a punishment from Heaven."

Aziraphale was growing alarmed, though making a pretence of not letting it come through in his voice, given how angry he still was.

Then he _realised_. Oh, for the love of... "You're not going to discorporate, you're simply having a hangover."

"Wot's _M'angover_?"

While rushing back over to Crowley's flat was the last thing he wanted to do right then, Aziraphale knew he couldn't just 'pass by on the other side' so to speak.

"I'll be there. Expect me when you see me."

* * *

Raphael was sprawled across the white leather sofa in his lounge, staring with half-closed eyes at the partially collapsed fort about a foot away.

He didn't remember how he'd started – then, with a slurred curse word and belligerent snatching of one of the more structurally significant cushions, _given up_ – drunkenly dismantling it after Aziraphale stormed out.

How he currently saw it: the world had gone black sometime after the angel left and he'd fallen on his face, and when it was light again – _too _light, a light that made him sick – his fort was in a deplorable state of dilapidation.

With herculean effort, he lifted his head when he heard the unbearable _scrape, bang, scrape_ of somebody moving things in the kitchen.

Grabbing the first thing within reach – which turned out to be a plastic plant mister – he shambled towards the source of the sound. His body relaxed, muscles unclenching, when he saw it was only Aziraphale.

"How'd you get in here?"

"I'm an _angel_." He reached into a brown paper bag and pulled out a green glass bottle and a small cardboard box.

"Right."

"Also," he admitted, a touch grudgingly, "I have a key."

Raphael set the planet mister down on the counter-top. "About last night–"

Aziraphale ignored the attempt. "I've brought water biscuits and ginger beer – they should make you feel better." He rolled his eyes at the plant mister. "Oh, really, for Heaven's sake. What were you planning to do with _that_?"

"Aziraphale, will you at least _look_ at me?"

He did, with ice in his stare. "Have you _any idea_ the trouble you got me into with Gabriel?"

Raphael moaned. "It _was _six thousand years ago."

"Not for _you_ it wasn't," he muttered.

"Still." He shrugged his shoulders. "Not much good getting worked up about it _now_."

"You called me a sucker." Aziraphale pursed his lips. "That wasn't very nice."

Raphael sniffed, leaning against the counter self-consciously. "I'll say I'm sorry, if you like."

"_If I like_," repeated Aziraphale, bitterly. "Listen to yourself."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Goodbye." He turned on his heel and began to walk out of the kitchen.

Raphael was stricken – snapping to attention, he reached out for Aziraphale's arm, not quite making contact. "Don't be like this. What am I supposed to _do_?"

The angel finally met his eyes. "Crowley, my dear," he said, very slowly and very coldly, "I don't give a damn."

* * *

"How long are you going to pretend you don't know I'm following you?"

Aziraphale slowed his steps. "Nobody's pretending. I'm deliberately ignoring you – there _is_ a difference."

Crowley stomped along on the pavement, coming up beside him. "Work with me, I'm trying to apologise here. God, my head is still _killing_ me. You know this is a form of torture – chasing you through central London in the blazing sunlight – right?"

Aziraphale inclined his head towards St Pancras. "I'm going in here."

"_Why_?" the demon whined.

He swung open the tall gate open and stepped over the property line. "Because it's one place" – the angel pulled the gate shut behind himself and latched it with a pointed _click_, glaring at Crowley through the black-and-gold grating – "I _know_ you can't follow me."

"Right, fine. Good."

"Great. Tickety-bloody-_boo_."

"Have a nice day," Crowley called sarcastically over his shoulder.

* * *

Fuming, Raphael spent the next hour meandering his way over to St. James's Park.

He hated Aziraphale right then – almost as much as he hated himself.

Who did that stuck up Principality think he _was_? The anger pulsing through his veins with mad adrenaline changed course in a twinkling. Who did _he_, a fallen archangel who nobody seemed to want any more, think _he_ was?

His feet weren't entirely healed yet, though they were certainly getting there; he wished he'd taken the black car.

The black car he didn't remember how to _drive_.

Damn.

At the park, he wandered some more, ignoring the urge to be sick again and the continued stinging of his feet, then plopped down on a bench beside a woman with a pram, face buried in her phone.

The little human creature in the pram was screaming bloody murder, crying like anything.

"Lady, it's _crying_."

She didn't look up.

It wasn't the cry of a hungry infant – it was a shrill plea to be held, to feel some connection to another living thing. Raphael didn't think he could stand it. Not now. Not today. Not while he was feeling like this.

"Please pick it up, it's very annoying."

The mother gave a noncommittal grunt, still scrolling on her phone.

There was a name on the side of the pram. _Tobias_.

Little Tobias screamed like nothing in the world would make him stop. He was lonely and somebody was going to have to bloody _acknowledge_ it, _okay_?

"Hang on." Raphael reached into the pram and pulled the baby out, holding it in his arms. Tobias stopped mid-shriek, gazing up into his face while trails of spittle gathered on the side of his mouth. "_Better_?"

The baby blew a saliva bubble at him.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" The mother had put her phone away and was standing in front him with a look of disbelief on her face.

"He wanted–"

She struck him across the face. "You don't_ touch_ my baby!"

Their gazes locked. Hand clamping over her mouth in horror, she stared into his freakish yellow eyes, then ripped the baby from his arms, thrusting the child – now screaming again – back into the pram.

"What _are_ you?" she cried.

Raphael rose slowly, cheek aflame, turning away from her so she wouldn't strike him again out of fear. "Damned if I know." Damned irregardless.

Subdued, he wandered further on. That was when he saw a familiar figure in pastel grey and pale blue, white ruffles about the neck, looking pinched and anxious, like she'd just swallowed something distasteful – obviously she was on duty.

"_Michael_," he breathed, rushing forward towards the archangel on the green.

In an instant, he just about forgot he was a demon now, that he wasn't simply lost in a strange place as he'd originally thought, racing towards his former life with renewed vigour.

Michael's eyes widened in alarm. She gawked at him for a moment, then began to hurry away in the opposite direction.

"_Wait_!" He threw himself at her and gripped her around the waist.

"Let me go! I've left you alone – what more do you _want_?"

"Mikey, you old prune, it's _me_! It's Raphael! You have got to–"

She tried to struggle out of his grasp. "You're _insane_ – you're the demon Crowley."

He tightened his grasp accordingly, pinning her arms in place. "Everybody needs to _stop calling me that_!"

"You think just because you survived a bathtub of holy water and changed your clothes you can come back to Heaven like nothing's happened? This is a trick. You are lying or you are _mental_."

"Please just _listen_ to me. I–" He broke off and screamed, "_Ow_!"

She'd bitten him on the hand. Well, if she thought that was enough to make him stop, she was sorely mistaken. If Aziraphale was abandoning him, he had absolutely _no one_ here on earth. And if Lucifer really was a monster who'd turned against God, it was no good seeking _him_ out. Humans clearly didn't like him – look what that woman had done over his simply trying to comfort a crying baby! What sort of creatures were these? He couldn't remember anything about being a demon – or other demons – and yet he felt confident that even they, in their hellish fallen stance, couldn't be so...so... There wasn't a word for it!

Moreover, Heaven was supposed to be _merciful_ – how could they punish him for something he didn't even remember _doing_?

The tussle between the pair of supernatural beings in clingy pastels quickly turned into a frantic wrestling match there on the greenery which – if they'd been mortals – would have been noticed by any number of interesting (not necessarily interest_ed_) onlookers.

There was a moment where Raphael wondered, in passing, if it was really _Michael_ he was so desperate to make listen to him, to accept his apology. Really _Michael_ whose good graces he was so eager to be back in he felt the world would – or might as well – end if he couldn't manage it.

Or if – perhaps, just perhaps – she was simply _there_, a flashier stand-in for another angel who he truly wanted to be grappling with right now but was currently on consecrated ground and thus unreachable.

He pushed the thought away, back to the furtherest recesses of his mind from whence it came. It depressed him to distraction and he had to be able to focus on the situation at hand.

Raphael had just about gotten himself wrapped so firmly around her that she couldn't move much more than a couple of fingers.

_Not bad for a guy who felt like death warmed up._ Still, it was lucky it had been _her _and not Gabriel or Sandalphon, who both outweighed him in the bulk department, he thought, rolling her over so that he could hold her in place by her wrists.

Straddling her, he panted for breath he didn't actually need. "We. Need. To. Talk."

"All right," she said, calmly but not nicely.

"_Thank you_. Finally." He let go of her wrists but didn't move.

She squirmed a little ways out from under him, gave the smallest of coy smirks, then promptly kicked him between the legs.

As he wasn't making the effort, there wasn't anything there that should have hurt the way such a kick would have hurt a mortal man. She had, however, been performing a miracle which – upon contact – knocked his thigh out of its joint. And so the pain was sharp and sudden and almost paralysing, and he screamed in agony as he fell off her.

He was sprawled helplessly on the grass, unable to give chase. He couldn't even _stand_.

"Please," he whimpered, stifling a sob, "you can't. You _can't_. You can't just_ leave _me. I don't have _anyone_!"

Michael soared upwards in a stream of white light.

"_Wankers_!" Raphael bellowed, directing his hysterical rant at the place she'd been standing a moment ago. "All of you!"

* * *

Adam Young pulled his car – a cherry-red Toyota – over when he saw the limping demon walking in the murky London twilight.

The window wound down with a _whirr_. "Crowley!"

The demon didn't look up, just kept limping along, passing right by the idling car. His manner did not suggest somebody who was ignoring the caller, simply someone who thought _he_ wasn't the one being addressed. How strange.

"_Crowley_!" Adam leaned out the window.

This time he stopped – he'd heard him properly but did not turn. It was as if the name _annoyed_ him somehow, like nails on a chalkboard, the sound of it grating up his spine.

Finally, the demon turned and looked. His face, though still distorted with pain, was greatly transformed as if from intense surprise. "Lucifer?"

It was hard to tell if the demon's tone was frightened or else elated. If Adam had to venture a guess, he'd have said it was a bit of both. "No... It's Adam. Your voice sounds funny. Are you _all right_?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. You don't even look like him, really. I don't know why I thought... For a second, you just... Never mind. I'm having a severe lapse of memory just now, uh, Adam, was it? Could you do me a favour and pretend this is the first time we've met? Whoever you are, however we actually know each other."

Adam smiled warmly, obligingly. "Nice to meet you."

He shuffled awkwardly. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Do you want a lift? I'll take you wherever you need to go."

The demon hobbled off the pavement and walked around the car, grabbing the door-handle. "Yeah. Thanks."

"From a stranger?" he teased.

"Oh, well, desperate times."

"Yeah, I noticed you can barely walk – what happened?"

"Long story." He groaned as he heaved himself into the passenger seat. "Got my ass kicked by an old friend."

"Aziraphale?" Adam guessed.

The demon appeared rather offended. "No, not _Aziraphale_!" he snapped pertly.

"Oh. Suh-ree. Excuse the hell out of me then." He was silent a moment, then had another thought. "So. I guess you didn't get my message on your ansaphone, then. About my being in London for a couple days."

"Was _that_ what that incessant blinking red light was on about?" sneered the demon. "_Thanks_."

"This is getting nasty, I think we should be nice again," Adam suggested, pulling gently on the steering wheel and making a smooth left turn.

"I'm never nice," he said darkly. "Not any more. Somewhere along the way, nice became a four-letter word."

"Oh, I dunno, sometimes you are."

"If you say so. Tell Aziraphale that one of these days, then. Maybe he'll listen to _you_." He paused. Then, "By the way, my address–"

"Oh, don't you worry," Adam assured him. "I know exactly where I'm taking you."

"Good. That's all right, then." He blew on his hands. "Cold tonight."

"Hmm," agreed Adam. "So why don't you tell me what's been going on with you? I bet I could help."

"Unlikely. You probably wouldn't even understand it. I'm not sure _I_ do."

"Try me."

And so the demon did. He told him everything, both as if it mattered enormously and as if it mattered not at all. There was pain in his face during the telling of it, but there was a touch of sharp humour as well, the smallest hint of a smile.

Adam missed any number of turns and went rather in a circle until the story was nearing completion and he felt certain of hearing all of it before they arrived at their destination.

When they did, the demon frowned. "You_ said _you were taking me to my flat."

They were directly outside of Aziraphale's bookshop. There was a light on inside.

"No," said Adam with a smile that – though he couldn't have known it – was far more reminiscent of God after shuffling a particularly satisfying deck than it was of Satan. "I said I'd take you where you needed to go."

"Are you coming in with me?"

"Crowley – Raphael, _whatever _– see here. There are some doors you have to go through on your own." He understood it might be a little scary, but the demon had to buck up and do this _anyway_ – Crowley was better off being brave. "Do you understand?"

"No, not really. But I think, if I did, I wouldn't be me."

"Go on, then. Your friend's waiting for you."

**A/N: Yes, the Stardust reference was deliberate. **

**Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.**

**Edit update: I did recently change part of this, but only because of a small mistake I noticed regarding Adam supposedly leaning over the passenger seat to talk to Crawley on the street; this would only make sense if Adam somehow had an American car, which then turned back into a British one when Crowley decided to get in (since he then had to go into the street to get to the passenger side); oops. Unless the Antichrist has magic car powers, this makes no sense.**

**So I fixed this.**


	4. Part 4 of 4

_The Sort of Thing You Forget_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Part 4 of 4

The bell over the door jingled.

Aziraphale chose not to get up but, then, he'd also chosen not to lock it. Just in case this very scenario happened. In case Crowley – or Raphael, or whoever he was – decided to turn up tonight. He hadn't help out much hope of it happening; he'd been harsh, and he knew it. Still, it hadn't been nice, what his friend had done.

It sounded as if Crowley were dragging his feet in an overly noisy fashion, and Aziraphale wondered if he was doing that deliberately to get attention. If he were declaring, "I'm here, pay attention to me! I used to be an archangel, you know!"

"Are you still angry with me?" The voice was sheepish.

Aziraphale slowly closed a book, using his thumb to hold his place. "I don't believe so, not if you're quite done being a prat." With his other hand he slowly pulled off his reading spectacles. "Are you?"

"Pretty much," he conceded.

"Then I suppose we're all right, dear. All is forgiven."

A smile broke across Crowley's face – with it flared intense relief the angel hadn't anticipated, so pure it made his chest clench – and he took another step forward.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. "You're _limping_!"

With forced nonchalance, "I got hurt."

"How?" He'd only left him alone for the better part of a _day_. How much trouble could he possibly have gotten himself into?

"I got into a tussle with Michael."

"_Archangel _Michael?"

He nodded. "That's the bitch." A sigh escaped him. "Anyway, I still can't work out how to use my occult powers so..."

"So you've been going about London with bone and muscle out of place for hours." Aziraphale felt terrible. He set the book down. "Come here."

Crowley inclined the hurt leg towards him, pressing his hand against the side of the desk for balance.

Gently, Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley's contorted thigh and concentrated.

He hoped Michael hadn't done anything special, that it was just an ordinary miracle. If it was anything more vindictive than that, he might not be able to fix it and he'd never forgive himself. She might have some reason to be sour, given the last time she thought she'd seen 'Crowley' had been when Aziraphale himself shamelessly asked her to miracle him a bathtowel.

_Michael. Duude. Do us a quick miracle, will you? I need a bathtowel?_

Perhaps he'd overdone it, just a bit.

Luckily, she wasn't quite as petty as Gabriel would have been in the same situation – it really was just a misplaced bone. Brutal though it was, a _human_ could have caused the same injury if they'd really wanted to – it just would have taken more effort.

Crowley grimaced and said, "Owww..."

"I know, I know." His own pale face was etched with furrowed creases from sympathy pains. "Brace yourself, dear boy. It's nearly over."

_Pop._

"Ahh." Crowley sagged in relief. "Much better."

"Now." Aziraphale got up. In spite of himself, he was beginning to feel the anticipatory twinge of excitement he sometimes felt when he was about to enjoy agreeable company. "Let's have a nice hot cup of tea, we'll talk a bit, and I'll get the spare linens out."

"What for?" asked Crowley.

"To make up the couch."

"The couch?"

"_I_ might not have much use for sleeping – but I suppose you're still partial to it. You might even _need_ it, for once. You look exhausted."

* * *

Aziraphale was trying to read – and take notes on – the book he'd put aside the night before, but was distracted by the sound of Crowley humming to himself. He'd hinted a few times that he'd was trying to work, a hint that Crowley had always gotten fairly quickly in the past but regarding which _Raphael _seemed a bit slow on the uptake.

"How's it look?"

With a patient sigh, Aziraphale glanced up to see what his friend was talking about.

Crowley had the medal Aziraphale was given in the 1800s – presented by Gabriel and Sandalphon – hanging from his neck. His wings were out; he was flapping them in a preening fashion, even though Aziraphale had warned him already that the shop was open and people could walk in at any moment and that, also, he could knock something down if he insisted on repeatedly fluttering them like that. His feet were moving in what, if it were more graceful, might have almost been dancing. It was, basically, everything short of literally twirling in front of a mirror.

Raphael clearly had some vanity issues, and Aziraphale was surprised to discover he didn't actually_ mind _them. Yes, sin of pride and all that, but once you got past the initial emotional whiplash, Crowley's newfound flamboyance came across as fairly harmless. At times it was even endearing. A bit like watching an excited child play dress up.

"I've always wanted one of these," he remarked, fingering the medal wistfully.

Aziraphale had to admit the effect was flattering. Crowley really did make a beautiful angel, with the light-coloured clothes and now that gleaming medal. It was bittersweet, how ironic that fact was. He couldn't even _imagine _how striking he must have been up in Heaven before his downwards saunter.

"You can _keep_ it," Aziraphale told him. "Looks much better on you anyway."

He began to pull the ribbon off over his head, simultaneously drawing in his wings. "I didn't earn it."

"Well, frankly, neither did I."

"Oh?"

The angel smiled, trying not to laugh. "I got it for_ thwarting you_."

"I must confess," he chuckled, coming over and placing the medal down beside Aziraphale's book on the desk, "I don't feel particularly thwarted."

"Well, there you are, then." The angel placed a plump hand over the medal and slid it back towards Crowley. "Keep it."

"But..."

"What is it, my dear?"

"It's not something _he_ would want, is it?"

Aziraphale was puzzled. "Who do you mean?"

"The version of me you know – the one who isn't six thousand years behind you – _Crowley_." He added the name was if it tasted sour in his mouth. "_He _wouldn't want some stupid angelic medal, would he?"

The angel softened. "You don't have to try to be him, Raphael." And for once he didn't feel like he was being robbed, calling his friend by that name. "You _are _him. And you're also _you_. It's all right."

"D'you really mean that?" He looked like he might cry. "I mean, what if you're stuck with me like this? What if I'm like this forever – or at least for another six thousand years while we play catch up? You won't hate me for it?"

"Of course not. Whatever happened to you wasn't your fault. Why would you think that I–"

"You _did_ go into a church to get away from me yesterday." There was the smallest hint of reproach in his voice.

"I suppose that's a matter of us needing to work out some boundaries. You used to always get the hint – when I was angry at you or busy – but it's no feathers off my wings if we've got to build that all back up again."

"I feel like a coward, though."

Aziraphale stood and reached out to him. "Why? Tell me."

"I'm afraid that if there was the chance to get my memories back I wouldn't take them – it'd be a bit like dying, you know, becoming somebody else just like that – no more Raphael – but then I'm already way past my time."

Taking his friend's hand and patting it in consolation, Aziraphale sighed gently. "Listen. If such an opportunity should arise" – and, depressingly, he was not sure he believed it ever _would_, after all _Crowley _was the real optimist of the two of them, not him – "I'll respect whatever choice you make."

"_Respect_ but not _like_." Crowley squeezed his hand.

"It's the best I can do for now. And I'm as sorry for it as you are."

"You know, it's the craziest thing..." The demon looked away, trailing off.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. It's ridiculous."

"No, really, what was it you were going to say?"

"I was just thinking that" – and he was uncharacteristically bashful – "it's a pity we weren't already friends in Heaven. I mean, I get that we're not the sort the other would seek out. There's that. Sure. But going by that sells us both short. Because you are just enough of a bastard, Aziraphale the mad Principality, to be worth liking."

Aziraphale found himself fighting a smile. "Not as much as you liked Lucifer."

Crowley's yellow eyes rolled up towards the bookshop's ceiling. "Lucifer can go to Hell."

Although he was trying very hard to be serious, the irony of this statement proved too much for the angel whose shaking body gave away his repressed laughter.

Seemingly realising what he'd just said, Crowley began laughing, too, so hard there were tears streaming down his face.

"This really isn't that funny, is it?" gasped Aziraphale, holding onto the nearest shelf for stability.

"No," wheezed Crowley, nearly bent over. "It's really not."

It felt good, though.

Above their heads, the lights suddenly flickered violently, accompanied by a _zip-zip-zip_ noise, and Aziraphale sobered. "Oh my."

"Why are you doing that?" As soon as Crowley's laughter ceased, all the lights in the shop stabilized.

"I'm not," Aziraphale marvelled. "That's _never _an ethereal force. That's occult."

"You mean there's another demon–" he began, slightly afraid.

"Cro...I mean, Raphael. No." He fought against a smile. "It's you. _You're_ doing that – I think you're starting to figure it all out again."

* * *

Punishments were not supposed to work this way, Hastur thought, watching from the glass-front door of a Cafe in Soho as a certain angel and demon pair cheerfully stepped off a double-decker bus.

_Wait._ Was the flash bastard wearing a bloody _medal_ around his neck? Surely not. Not even Crowley was that stupid, that boldly obtuse.

Wearing that, he was, for all the world, giving the forces of Hell the middle finger.

But it was there, sure as anything – right over his heart, not a speck of tarnish on it – glinting in the low light.

The sky above the couple was dense with grey clouds and, noting the forthcoming rainfall, the angel was fumbling with an umbrella. His fat fingers weren't quite getting it right; he appeared to have broken one of his shiny, sickeningly clean and perfect fingernails.

Hastur saw Crowley's mouth form the words, "Here, allow me." The umbrella unceremoniously imploded, charred and blown out the wrong way. "_Bugger_." He handed the now useless lightning rod back to the angel, who had his hands on his hips but was grinning with warm tolerance.

A disposable demon came up behind Hastur. The Duke of Hell could see the idiot's jaw dropping via his reflection in the window. "No _way_! They're still friends? Satan will not be pleased."

"Shut up or I'll make _you_ tell Him."

He prattled on, unwisely. "But I thought this whole thing was–"

"I said," barked Hastur, "_shut up_!"

Outside, a drenched Crowley was attempting to lift a pastel grey trench-coat over his and the angel's heads while they scanned the street for – it seemed – a suitable place to have lunch. The rod of the umbrella was already rolling down the pavement, long forgotten.

Hastur seethed. This was meant to bring him satisfaction. Satan only did the memory wipe personally because he didn't like the idea of an angel – especially one he considered as unworthy a foe as paunchy, fussy Aziraphale – playing with one of his toys, no matter how little he actually cared for it. For all the pet names and endearments he lavished on him, he hadn't liked Crowley enough to promote him in Hell. The devil had started growing tired of his 'snaky red-haired darling' about five minutes after the rebellion ended badly. Why else would he have sent him into Eden with no more instruction than 'Get up there and make some trouble'? He'd wanted a break from his neediness.

And – when you came down to it – it had been_ Aziraphale_ he really wanted to punish, _Aziraphale_ he'd watched and plotted against.

Satan neither loved nor hated Crowley enough for it to warrant more than a supernatural tantrum when he went turncoat.

But Hastur?

Oh, Hastur _hated_ him. Loathed him with a special passion that was rather creepy, given the degree of its obsessive fixation. He'd been looking forward to what he'd see when his master sent him up here to spy and report back.

Those two idiots giggling together under a raincoat was not what he'd gone through the bother of coming up here to witness.

"Bad luck that he seems to be working out how to use the powers of Hell again, too." The dim demon paused, for less than a proper beat. "But wasn't this supposed to be revenge for _you_, too, your Disgrace? Didn't Crowley kill_ your_ best friend? Wasn't this meant to take _his_ away to teach him–"

The vivid memory of Ligur – of his echoing screams as the bucket of holy water had fallen on his head – was too much for the infuriated Duke of Hell. He destroyed his idiot companion with little more than a thought.

The disposable demon was nothing but a fiery-coloured puddle of goo to his left.

He snapped his fingers at the nearest member of the cleaning staff he could find. "Accident by the door," he said darkly, stepping outside and brushing past Crowley and Aziraphale.

As he stomped by, he could hear the prissy angel say, "Something smells terribly burnt." It was very much the same tone any other angel would have used to say 'something smells horrendously evil'. "I think we should eat some place else."

* * *

Aziraphale was simply astonished.

They'd been sitting – he and Crowley – in companionable silence on a bench in Berkeley Square, the sky above not so much a brilliant blue as a remarkably serene one with only the faintest hints of grey.

Quite suddenly, Crowley had reverted from his perpetual slouch, perked up like he'd been pinched on the backside, and launched into a most remarkable speech.

It began with a question: "That apple thing you were telling me about the other day – the thing I supposedly caused in Eden, fall of mankind and all that – what if it was just a _blip_?"

Aziraphale didn't exactly follow, and blurted something to the effect of "Wha–?" as Crowley continued on with scarcely a pause for breath; he was _that _excited.

"No, seriously. What if it _was_?" His cheeks flushed, eyes shining as if he'd worked out something marvellous. "Nobody who can create a universe in six days is going to let something that stupid – one demon with too much time on his hands and too vague of instructions for his own good – sully what they've created. Not _permanently_."

"I'm not sure I understand," confessed Aziraphale, though his heart was racing in time with Crowley's manic voice, and he felt certain his friend was onto _something_.

"Why'd the rebellion happen?" he challenged. "God could have just told Lucifer to shut up and sit down and please not get his feathers in a knot while he's bloody going about it, right? It's _God_, after all."

"Well, it's free will," Aziraphale ventured.

Crowley snapped his fingers. "_Exactly_! That's m'point! Free will. God tells Lucifer to stick it where the sun doesn't shine, and there's who knows how many throngs of passive-aggressive angels who are still angels not because they _want_ to be angels, but because they think God wouldn't let them choose to be anything else."

Aziraphale was entranced. What an _idea_! He was surprised, too, that he was so drawn to it, as he ought to have been bias in the opposite direction, despite his love of truth.

After all Crowley – _his_ Crowley, his companion of six thousands years – would never have made such a connection. He couldn't, poor thing, he was far too jaded, too many times burnt.

_Raphael_, however...

"So Adam and Eve..." Aziraphale offered.

"Same thing. _Think_, Aziraphale. By your own admission, you were guarding the Eastern Gate when we met. What were you doing that for?"

"Well," he admitted, a trifle testily, "I was meant to be keeping the likes of _you_ out, I suppose."

"Oh, well done," teased Crowley. "But really. Why couldn't Adam and Eve return home? Put aside the irony that they learned good and bad by choosing bad. It's not like there was anyone else in the garden for them to influence. They hadn't had kids yet; she was only just expecting when they left."

"I don't_ know_," Aziraphale said helplessly, spreading out his hands.

"What if..." And he smiled a slow, snaky smile and wet his lips, then smacked them emphatically. "What if there was another tree?"

"_Another_ tree?"

"Every poison has its antidote." He raised the medal around his neck to his mouth, breathed on it, then rubbed it to a shine with his wrist. "Tree of Life, perhaps?"

"But was knowledge – knowing good from bad – poison?"

"I suppose it is, _if _you choose bad."

"But it's all ineffable."

Crowley's brow lifted. "_Is_ it?"

"You can't second-guess ineffability."

"Hmm. Maybe _we _can't – not you and me. Not angels and demons. _People_, though?"

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. "How can it matter now, anyway? There's no more Eden – it was lost in the flood."

A look of impatience flitted across Crowley's face. "Aziraphale, you're smarter than that. God doesn't _need_ the stupid tree – it's just a _blip_. That's what I've been telling you."

"But how does that fit in with what you guessed before – after we stopped Armageddon? About angels and demons against humanity?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we get jealous. Or angry. Angry that they could – if they wanted to – understand something _we_ aren't allowed to. Angry that we've already made our beds so to speak but there's still time for _them_." He rose from the bench and began skipping in place. "I think I need to walk a bit. Coming with me?"

Aziraphale nodded and trotted alongside him.

"What I'm saying is there's a big reset coming up, like drawing venom from a wound – that's the _real Armageddon_, not the little stunt Lucifer pulled with his Antichrist."

"But, my dear, things don't just reset." _Fallen things don't just soar back upwards. _

"_I _did, sort of," the demon pointed out. He held up a hand before Aziraphale could protest. "Badly. With some unpleasant results. Which is why I don't think it was God's plan – not the Almighty's doing. But it's an example. I started all over again – six thousand years gone in a twinkling – why can't the _world_ go the same way?"

"But people wouldn't know..."

"_We'd_ know. We'd have records... Anyone who asked why things had to be the way they were – we'd just tell them what Lucifer did, how it wasn't all a barrel of laughs. We could help them to start on the right path. Tell them, yeah, sure you can eat the bloody apple if you want, no one's got a gun to your head, but look what _happens_. Then, as they get older – no sin, so perhaps no death either, meaning long, long lives – they'd help_ themselves_. They'd be around long enough really get it right."

Aziraphale grimaced. "Yes, but what about all the_ good_ things? My bookshop, your Bentley, that insufferable bebop you play on the stereo in your flat..." The last ten years had not warmed him in the least towards the idea of spending eternity watching _The Sound of Music_ over and over again. "All gone? _Forever_?"

"I shouldn't _think_ so." The foliage overhead cast amber and green spots of light onto Crowley's rapt face. "More like, they'd be there, but better. Safer." He paused for a moment, turning from the light to look directly at Aziraphale. "Like, you'd have your bookshop, right enough, but you wouldn't have to _lock it_ because people would know better than to enter without permission. They'd be kind, but not robots. Still have wit and mischief but they'd know better than to take it too far."

"But," sighed Aziraphale, reluctantly, as it did sound delightful, "there would be too many people who would want to make everything strict so it didn't get bad again – people who would just get rid of any music they didn't personally like or ideas they didn't fancy." He thought of Gabriel; _he'd_ like people to behave like that, think it quite right. "It'd be rather a mess."

"But we're talking about _God_." Crowley's voice broke, almost into a croak of desperation, and Aziraphale understood his meaning. _Can't God do _anything _no matter _what_? Isn't that the whole point of a miracle? _"If Adam – that's _our_ Adam, _Adam Young_ – could change the world, simply because he wanted to, what's holding back the Almighty?" He sucked his teeth. "It isn't time. We've all had_ that_ in spades."

They came to a halt at the Lansdowne fountain.

"It's wonderful, if you're right," Aziraphale stated, a little breathlessly. "_Wonderful_. It's almost too good. It would explain everything. Nothing to be afraid of ever again."

"It frightens_ me_," Crowley confessed.

"Why?"

"Because if the great plan wasn't_ completely_ ineffable, if God was knowable all the bloody time, I made a horrible mistake. I never got us on speaking terms – I never tried. I just got put off by that infuriating smile and let myself..." he trailed off. "I'm still a demon. I can even use some of my occult powers again. You'd have your shop, and so many humans to look after and love. What happens to me? I must have been hanging around the wrong sort, I never _meant_–"

"Excuse me, gentlemen." A tall, dark figure nudged past them.

Aziraphale blinked. Somehow the sun was inexplicably shining directly into his eyes and he needed to turn away. Then he found he couldn't recall what they'd just been talking about. "I'm sorry, my dear, what were you saying?"

Crowley seemed just as lost. "I don't know. Nothing terribly important. Gosh, it's getting late. Is it time to leave the garden?"

Aziraphale hooked his arm through his friend's and they made their way off the green and onto the pavement in perfect step with one another.

* * *

Azrael hadn't truly _wanted_ to wipe what Crowley had just worked out from the minds of the demon and angel; he admired their cleverness, even if he wasn't comfortable with the idea of another supernatural creature knowing how _he _was going to end.

No, the problem was that it wasn't for _them_ to know about – if they'd been born mortal, it might have been different. The secrets Crowley had been on the verge of unravelling were not for the likes of demons and angels – not yet, with the exception of himself, of Death – though they longed, unknowingly, to peer into them.

It wasn't right, Crowley being two sorts of creatures at once. Part angel, part demon, smeared with too much human influence. It was dangerous, before its time.

Still, when he took from them, Azrael had also decided to give them something back.

* * *

Crowley slumped forward and Aziraphale caught him before he could go falling from the unexpected dip in the pavement into the street, where he would have slid directly into the path of an oncoming taxi.

Crowley opened his eyes and stared up at Aziraphale, looking none the worse for the sudden stumble. "Angel?"

The voice was not an alto.

"_Crowley_!"

**A/N: This ends this fic. Hope you readers liked it. Reviews always welcome, even when replies are delayed. **


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